The Tavern Trickster
by Dyscord
Summary: Vaysey has a mind like a bird of prey, focused and sharp, and a whole new bag of tricks up his sleeve. Can the gang survive his newest trap? Sequel to The Lute Maker's Daughter.
1. Chapter 1

The Tavern Trickster

Rated: PG13

Disclaimer: I own nothing, okay? Are you happy now? (sob!)

Spoilers: All of season 1, none of season 2.

Sequel to "The Lute Maker's Daughter", set about a month later. You could read it without its prequel if you wanted, but you'd miss a lot. Better to start at the beginning.

Ships: I'm not telling!

Author's note: Ha ha ha! I'm back, and so is Lillian! I can't tell you how good It feels to be on break, and I'll have all the time I need to work on this for a while.

I'm a little unsure how this one is going to turn out. I have the plot roughly mapped out in my head, but I'm thinking the bulk of the narrative is going to be short, disjointed scenes that have more to do with character development than the adventure. Unlike the Lute Maker's Daughter, this story is going to take place over the period of a week or two (rather than just one, incredibly busy night), so there will be lots of room for downtime in the camp, which is always fun.

Please enjoy! Reviews are, as always, welcome.

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Allan crunched into his fresh apple, grinning smugly to himself as he licked a dribble of juice from his thumb. The first apples of the season were always the best – sharp, sweet, and new, bringing back myriad memories of all the autumns that had come before. Still, the autumns before he had (usually) had a roof over his head, or at least a friend whose home he could guilt or muscle his way into at night. Winters in the forests were hard, probably the hardest thing about fighting alongside Robin Hood. His cloak was starting to wear thin, and the chill autumn air whipped right through it. Allan sighed, gathering his arms around himself. At least the apples were good.

Much was in a sulk about something or other, Djaq was off delivering a letter, Will was working on some new carpentry project, and most of the others were either busy or missing, so Allan had snuck off dejectedly like a child bereft of playmates. He'd nicked an apple from the store and, on a whim, climbed a tree, settling himself down to take some time alone (and hide from Much's nagging). Draped awkwardly over a convenient formation of branches, he was quite enjoying his solitude when a familiar set of footsteps rustled beneath him.

Lillian, her hand clutched around a sheathed sword, crept past his tree, checking side to side guiltily as though afraid of being caught, a slightly embarrassed look to her. Her straight chestnut locks were tied back in a tight braid, and her cheeks had a light brush of pink to them from the cold. Her dark eyes flicked about her from side to side, checking for onlookers, but she didn't think to look up, where Allan was perched (extremely curious about her suspicious behavior). She seemed satisfied that she was alone, however, and in one quick movement pulled the sword from its scabbard.

It was funny, Allan thought to himself, how fingers so nimble on lute strings could be so utterly useless around the hilt of a sword. She was testing its weight experimentally, with the air of a child playing with a new toy. To be fair, it _was_ new; Will had nicked for her it in town from one of the guards, and at last Lillian had a proper weapon -- not that stupid broken halberd she was so fond of, Allan added to himself. He had mocked her often for fighting with half a weapon.

Still, he thought as he watched her get to grips with her new sword, at the rate she was going she'd be better off with the halberd after all. She had drawn it with a flourish, obviously pleased at its shine and the delicate noise of steel-against-steel it made when she drew it from its scabbard. Her style, however, ended there. She was unused to having that much weight on so long a lever, and the tip of the sword drooped pathetically towards the ground. She hefted it upwards as best she could, and took a few clumsy, experimental slashes in the air, almost losing her balance. On a downward stroke, she whirled around suddenly, attempting an acrobatic flourish, but her sword struck a low hanging tree branch and the reverberating bounce back took her by surprise, and she dropped it.

With a snort of mocking (yet good natured) laughter, Allan dropped his apple core to the ground and swung down from his perch. Lillian jumped, looking embarrassed and nervous at being caught so unceremoniously. Upon seeing it was Allan, however, her features became harder, annoyed and standoffish.

"I should have known it was you, Allan-A-Dale. What, you have nothing better to do than spy on me?"

"I wasn't spying, I was here first," protested Allan, picking up her sword and handing it back to her, hilt first. She snatched it back without thanks. He grinned. "Well, at least that tree knows better than to mess with you again."

"Shut it," Lillian snapped. Allan held up his hands in mock surrender.

"All right, all right, don't get in a huff."

"I never touched a sword in my life," she added defensively. "Of course I am no good at it the first time." She seemed a little disappointed in herself, though, as though she had expected to somehow magically excel at it. She wistfully lifted the sword again, and turned it around in her hands - holding it all wrong, of course. Without a word of either derision or encouragement, Allan silently reached forward and corrected her grip.

"You could use a few lessons," Allan remarked slyly. "Someone who could show you your way around a blade."

"Oh, and that's you, is it?" Asked Lillian, sheathing her sword. She was no longer angry, but seemed prepared for the match of verbal sparring that always seemed to erupt between Allan and her.

Allan shrugged. "Only if you want me to. Of course, you could just wait until the next battle with a dozen armoured guards and trust to luck - or to one of us to rush in and save you."

That touched a nerve. She shot him a dirty look, but appeared to consider his offer. "All right, all right, I'll study with you. But quit making your snide little jokes, alright?"

"Wait a minute, now," Allan protested. "I didn't say I'd do it for free!"

Lillian raised a delicate eyebrow, not quite sure what he was getting at. "What could you possibly want from me? You know I have no money."

"Well..." shrugged Allan, stepping towards her with the sly grin he sometimes used to charm barmaids and peasant girls. Sometimes it worked, sometimes he got a mug of ale in the face. "You could pay me in kisses, I suppose..."

Lillian sighed and rolled her eyes. There was no getting around it; as she had gotten to know the gang a little better, and Allan had gotten more and more comfortable around her, he had gotten more and more impudently flirtatious. It wasn't as though he really thought anything would come of it, he didn't even seem to think about it much. There were two things that were second nature to Allan A Dale, joking and flirting, and Lillian was getting a little sick of his good-natured harassment.

She laughed at him mockingly, one eyebrow raised in derision. "You know what, Allan A Dale?"

"What?"

"You are really, really not as charming as you think you are." She shoved him away a little harder and more violently than was necessary, and he stumbled, laughing. He could be rejected a thousand times and take it in stride, that Allan A Dale.

Lillian knew better than to take him too seriously. He had piqued her interest with his offer. She took a few steps back, considering how to work around his lecherous flirting. "You know, if you were serious about teaching me to fight, I could pay you back in other ways."

Allan's eyebrows shot up. "... Other ways?"

Lillian rolled her eyes with a short exhale of irritation "Not _those_ ways, Allan," she groaned.

Allan at least had the decency to look a little sheepish.

"I noticed you today," Lillian went on, "watching Robin writing to that Cooper. You looked... fascinated. And a little sad."

This was true. Robin had been carrying out some errands, writing out an order to a local cooper and sending it with Djaq. Allan had watched his fingers trace the letters on the parchment with more than a little fascination, trying to imagine where the scribbled black lines ended and the words began. He hadn't realized Lillian had noticed him. Allan shrugged, a little uncomfortable at her speculating on his feelings.

"Would you like to learn to read, Allan?" Lillian asked innocently.

Whatever Allan had been expecting, it wasn't this. He dropped his flirtatious manner and stared at her, flabbergasted. Allan was the poor son of a blacksmith who'd had no interest at all in books or 'any of that fancy rubbish'. Where he was born they didn't even have writing on the signposts, just pictures and arrows. For a man in his position to know how to read was... unthinkable. It was strange and alien and socially unacceptable.

And it was very, very tempting.

"What would I need to read for?" he asked warily. Lillian shrugged.

"I think you'd find it would become useful at the most unexpected times. Reading gives you a kind of power. It helps you understand the words you speak and the way you understand and express yourself. It allows you to learn about your world. Imagine being able to read the Bible on your own, cover to cover!" She was a persuasive speaker, and Allan didn't need much persuading to begin with. Literacy was more than just a useful tool. To men of Allan's class it meant self betterment, a taste of the life out of the slums and gutters that had been his home his entire life. The idea of reading was almost mystical, unattainable, never a real possibility. Even if he never used it again, it would be something to be proud of. He could_ read_, the equal of any poncey noble in any stuffy castle.

"...yeah," he breathed ineloquently, looking up to meet her eyes. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

"Good," said Lillian shortly. "You teach me to sword fight, and I'll teach you to read. Deal?" She held out her hand in a half-joking bargain handshake. He took it quickly. For the first time since they'd met, Lillian and Allan shared a smile that was not joking or teasing, or flirtatious at all. It was not sardonic or mocking, but instead it was a simple, mutual respect and understanding. They didn't quite know why, but something very important had just happened in both of their lives.

"Someday you'll have to tell me how the daughter of a poor lutesmith knows how to read," he added when she released his hand. She avoided both the question and his eyes.

"Never mind that," she murmured, drawing out her sword. "We can start with the first lesson now."

She held the sword out expectantly before her, as though waiting for it to teach her of its own accord. With a smile, Allan reached forward and yet again corrected her grip around the hilt. "There's your first mistake," he began. "Don't interlock your fingers, or you'll-"

Just what Lillians interlocked fingers might have done, however, she didn't find out, because a shrill whistle pierced through the still autumn air: Three long, high notes, and one short.

"Travellers on the North road," Lillian muttered, recognizing the code.

Allan nodded. "Lets go," he said shortly, and they took off through the chilled forest, stirring the leaves only slightly, as swift and silent as only Robin Hood's gang could be.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Lillian and Allan reached the north road robbery, most of the initial threats and jolly bullying were already over. Allan was disappointed. That was his favorite part (aside from the loot).

The caravan was small and dirty, but in Nottingham the smaller and dirtier the caravan, the more likely it hid jewels and riches. The Sheriff should know by now that he couldn't get one over on Robin Hood that easily. Robin stood, dead center of the road, bow drawn and his usual smug smirk on his face. The others materialized out of the bushes or from piles of leaves, weapons drawn, eyes wary.

The man slouched on the front of the caravan clutched the reins tighter, but a weary sense of inevitability flickered across his face. His clothes were worn and ragged, and a floppy-brimmed hat drooped down dejectedly to cover part of his face.

"You'd be Robin Hood?" he asked tiredly. He was neither old nor young, a rough, scratchy growth of stubble covering his mostly unremarkable face. His hair was dark but his eyes, Robin realized with a small jolt of surprise, were two different colours; one brown and one icy blue.

"That I am. He catches on fast, this one," The gang laughed. "So you'll probably know what I'm about to say next."

"I don't know what you plan to steal from me," the man insisted. More disbelieving laughter from the gang. "Honestly, I have nothing to steal besides the tuppence in my pocket. Search me, if you like,"

"Oh, don't worry, we will," Robin assured him, "And whatever's in your cart, as well. It must be good, since you've gone to so much trouble to make it look worthless."

"I think the rags were overdoing it," commented Much.

"It's nothing of value," the man said quickly. "Just a delivery… a delivery for the castle. Its not mine…"

"Then you won't mind if we have a look, " Robin said, just as John threw back the canvas on the back of the cart. Half a dozen small brown barrels were revealed with a flourish that didn't quite match the unimpressiveness of the sight.

"What's this, then?" John demanded.

The man looked helplessly from barrels to outlaws, outlaws to barrels. "It's for Sheriff Vaysey's store," he said finally. "Just a few casks of ale. Nothing of value."

"Nothing of value?" Allan breathed, his eyes widening at the sight of the alcohol. "That's the most valuable sodding loot I've ever seen,"

"Well, we can't take it," said Will, with finality. Allan glanced at him incredulously.

"What?" he stuttered, "We bloody well can! Why can't we?"

"How are we supposed to pass it out in the villages?" Will asked as though it were obvious. "Roll the casks into people's homes without being spotted? And what would they do with it anyway? We should leave it be. No use for it."

Allan stared at Will as though he had sprouted bright green horns. "No… no use for it? We can drink it, can't we?"

"We don't steal for ourselves, Allan," Will said coldly.

"Why in God's name not?" Allan said desperately. He appealed to Robin with most pleading, puppy-dog look he could muster. "Listen, mate, we've followed you through Hell and high water, lately, fighting for the cause and that. Don't we deserve a little something for ourselves? We're stretched thin enough, if we don't have a night of fun soon we're all going to go mad. Go on, disagree with me," he dared the assembled outlaws. None spoke. "That's what I thought."

"Taxes paid for this ale," Will insisted stubbornly.

"Best taxes the Sheriff's ever spent," muttered Allan. He tried a different tactic. "Look, we're not taking from any poor, impoverished brewer, we're taking from the sheriff. We can't just let him enjoy the spoils of his taxes, can we?"

Robin had been watching the debate between Allan and Will with a kind of amused detachment. He looked the barrels up and down, then back to Allan's hopeful face.

"You may have a point there, Allan," he said slowly. He had been noticing a slight heaviness about the gang of late, a dejected droop in their shoulders as the cold weather set in. "Winter's going to be miserable this year; why not have a night of wassail to raise our spirits before the cold sets in? And anyway," he added, with an impish grin. "Imagine the look on the Sheriff's face when he finds out a ragged bunch of outlaws are drinking his best, most expensive amber ale."

Allan looked like a dog that had been given a steak. "Really? Robin, d'you mean it?" He punched the air, laughing triumphantly, and slapped his friend heartily on the back (making Robin stagger forward slightly) "Robin, have I ever told you I love you?"

"No," Robin replied quickly, rubbing his shoulder where Allan had slapped it. "No need to start now."

"Come on, lads, you heard him!" he shouted jubilantly to the others. "Lets get this booty back to camp!"

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"Do you know what the working man's weakness is, Gisbourne?" the Sheriff queried delicately, groping into one of his bird cages to grasp his favorite sparrow. Safe from the biting autumn cold, the Sheriff had been reclining in his study all day, looking smug as a cat in a dairy. Gisbourne had naturally been curious why he'd been so obviously pleased with himself (even for Vaysey), so when he was summomed to the Sheriff's study he had attended without his usual stalling and foot-dragging.

Gisbourne raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to answer the seemingly arbitrary question. The Sheriff was toying with him again. He wished the half-mad noble would speak plainly now and then.

With a sigh, he played along. "No, my lord."

"Of course not," Vaysey said shortly. "You only tax and punish them, you don't have to understand them. I, however, am charged with keeping the peace in this shire, and have spent some time studying the lower classes' base minds. And do you know what I've found?"

He clutched the small, tawny bird in his hot, sweaty hands, pinning its wings down and holding it up to his face. "The working man's weakness, fortunately for us Gisbourne, is drink. Feed them enough liquor and you have them eating out of your hand... figuratively speaking of course," he sneered. "It makes them stupid and pliant, which is precisely what we want them to be."

"What has this to do with anything?" Gisbourne asked impatiently.

"Patience, Gisbourne," the Sheriff said silkily. "Robin Hood and his ragged gang are working men, simple, and easy to grasp. Their weakness is the same as any working men's." he smiled to himself. "And as such I have sent them a present. A little 'thank-you' for my utter humiliation a few weeks ago."

"A trap?" Gisbourne asked slowly.

"You could say that, I suppose," Vaysey answered with a grin. "Cheers, Gisbourne," he said, smiling, holding up his goblet of burgundy wine before putting the cup to his lips.

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"What on earth have you got now?" asked Djaq, bewildered, as the others emerged into camp, backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun. They each rolled (or in John's case, carried) a heavy cask of ale along the ground, panting a little from the effort. She had remained home from their latest robbery, as a single unguarded caravan didn't require the use of every team member, and was prodding unenthusiastically at Much's half-concocted stew with a wooden spoon. "This is the loot from the robbery?"

"Liquid gold, mate," Allan said cheerfully, standing his cask upright on a level patch of ground. "We're going to have ourselves a proper booze-up!"

"Alcohol?" Djaq sniffed disapprovingly. Allan nodded, straightening up and grinning his most Allan-ish grin.

"Won't you join us, Djaq?" he asked, in mock courtesy. She shook her head.

"A muslim is forbidden to drink the liquor of the grain," she said stiffly. She rolled her eyes at Allan's puzzled look. "Beer," she clarified.

"Naw, really?" he sounded deeply disturbed by this. "Ah, well. Here's to Christianity!" he said impudently, slapping a hand on the flat wood of one of the barrels. Djaq tried to look disgusted, but a small smile played about her lips.

Will looked guiltily at his feet. Tempting as the ale was even to him, he couldn't shake the feeling that it would be hypocrisy to take the spoils of a robbery for himself – especially for so trivial a reason. Djaq's refusal to partake was the last straw. He knew how tiresome drunkards could be to the sober, and he cringed at the thought of Djaq witnessing him embarrassingly, slobbering drunk (as he knew he would get, with Allan egging him on). Besides, he couldn't help thinking, she was bound to be a little impressed at his restraint, wasn't she?

"I'll keep Djaq company," he said quietly. "It's no fun being the only sober person in the room."

There was a small uproar at this. "Come on, Will," John cajoled. "You haven't had any fun in _years_!" Will simply shook his head stubbornly. Robin and John exchanged a meaningful glance, gesturing subtly towards Djaq. Will could be so transparent.

"Enough talk!" Allan said, tossing a wooden mug to each of them. "Drink now, talk later!"

When they'd cracked open the first cask of ale, the gang had settled into pleasant, relaxed conversation, warmed and comforted by the liquor which helped them forget their troubles, caught up in the pleasure of the moment. By the second, the energy level had begun to rise to the level of paralyzed laughter and raunchy jokes, and they began swapping amusing (and embarrassing) stories. To everyone's immense surprise, Lillian had brought out her lute and led them in a chorus of several of the bawdiest, rudest drinking songs that they had ever heard, their lyrics filthy enough to shock even Allan. Even Djaq joined in their helpless laughter. After their third and fourth, the gang began to tire, and became thoughtful and contemplative, breaking off into smaller groups, falling into quiet conversation. Much fell asleep by the fire, a pleasant look of contentment on his face. John had fallen into nostalgic reverie about his past, which Robin and Will listened to quietly (or at least, Robin smiled and nodded politely, and Will pretended to pay attention while sneaking furtive glances at Djaq when he thought she wasn't looking)

Lillian and Allan, however, were still giggling like teenagers long after the others had calmed down. They reclined by the fire opposite the others, making bawdy jokes and openly mocking one another. Lillian flushed like a red robin when she drank, which provided Allan with plenty of drunken amusement. He himself had gained a bright glow to his cheeks and nose, and was stumbling over his words incoherently. Lillian sniggered at him. He had his hands out expressively, his face a mask of mirth, as he delivered the punchline to his (extremely dirty) joke.

"…So the farmer says, 'that's not the udder!'" he slurred with a vividly descriptive hand gesture. Lillian spit ale all over herself and bent forward, cackling so hard she couldn't move or breathe.

"Not... the... UDDER!" she shrieked through her giggles. "Unbelievable!"

Allan chuckled too, watching her ridiculous hysterics. "Easy, there," he teased her. "Don't break a rib."

Her giggling subsided a little, and she leaned back again. Her hand slipped however, and she collapsed into Allan's side. He snaked an arm around her shoulder, still laughing, and Lillian looked down at it.

"Don't think I didn't see that," she slurred. "Up to your usual hijinn..hyjynks... hyj... tricks." Allan shrugged innocently.

"Dunno what you're talkin' about, love."

"I'm not your love," she snapped (or rather, sluggishly slurred). "My father warned me about men like you," she continued, wagging her finger drunkenly at him in mock disapproval, but did not make him remove his arm. Allan was the very picture of innocence.

"Me?" he said sweetly. "Now thass no' fair, Lill. Your father never met me."

"You're right," she said, taking another sip of ale. "If he did, he'd have had a lot more to say…"

It would be fair to say that Allan had drunk himself stupid. It would not be fair, however, to say he had lost his cunning entirely in the ale. He hadn't forgotten Lillian's mysterious hidden past, or how often she changed the subject when he asked her about it. Allan hated not knowing things, and he knew through his drunken haze that this was the perfect opportunity to worm a little more information out of her. For although Allan had drunk himself stupid, Lillian had drunk herself a little bit stupider.

"What was your old man like, anyway?" he asked in what he thought was a suave, subtle way. She didn't seem to notice, but her smile faltered.

"My dad? I dunno. My dad's a coward," she said, keen to avoid the topic. "What about yours?"

Allan sniffed in an aloof, masculine way. "He was a blacksmith. Nasty temper on him. Liked his ale a bit too much," he added, shaking his mug meaningfully. He was determined to get her back on track. "What d'you mean your dad is a coward?"

She shrugged. "He just never took risks for anything that was worth it. He did what he was told, you know? And you know what else?" she added with a sudden hint of anger, warming to the topic slightly, enjoying the opportunity to rant. "He never did a useful thing in his life. Never helped anyone, never created anything worthwhile. Too scared to. Just a coward," she finished, suddenly realizing she was raving.

Allan pressed her. "What do you mean, he never created anything worthwhile? He made your lute, didn't he?"

Lillian looked startled, and nervous. "Oh… oh yes, of course. I meant… besides the lutes."

To her surprise, Allan broke out into a loud bray of laughter. "Lill, you are the worst liar I have ever met!" he chortled. "When we first met, you said your father was dead, remember? And now you just forgot he makes lutes? Your father wasn't a lutemaker, was he. Do you even know who your father is?"

She slapped him for that, which he knew he deserved. "What are you, interrogating me?" she was suddenly angry, with the unfocused, disproportionate anger of a drunk. She pushed his arm off of her shoulder and shoved him violently away, checking hastily around the camp to see if the others had been listening to their conversation. They didn't seem to have been, but she was suddenly paranoid. "I told you to let it be," she slurred angrily.

"That was a month ago," he said defensively. "I thought by now you'd…"

Lillian interrupted him with a few well-chosen, colourful swearwords before storming off to her bed, leaving Allan to deal with the puzzled looks of the others.

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Author's note: I'm really not sure how much ale is in a standard, medieval cask. Do they vary in size? I'm also not sure just how much beer it would take to get the gang fairly drunk. Suffice to say, four casks sounded about right to me, but depending on how much alcohol a cask will hold, that might be way off.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I've been away for a while, which is why its taken me so long to update. Sorry it's so short, promise the next one will be longer.

Lots of love to everyone who took time to review. I keep meaning to write long replies to all my reviewers, but it slips my mind. Just to let you know, i really do appreciate you!

Hope you enjoy

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"Are they still asleep?" Djaq asked, exasperated, as she tidied up the debris of the previous night. "I know they were up late drinking, but it's past noon now. Perhaps we should wake them."

Will shrugged nervously. "Better you than me," he said, looking pointedly at Little John (whose temper, frightening at the best of times, was positively terrifying when he was tired and grumpy.) "Maybe we should just let 'em sleep it off."

Djaq looked skeptical. "It'll be their own faults if they're hung over, " she said doggedly, "And Robin would not want us to miss a robbery because of their folly. I'm going to wake them," she said, making up her mind. She knelt beside Robin, tossing his blanket off him and shaking his shoulder briskly.

"It's past noon, now, Robin," she said, politely but firmly. "We should get moving. Will, could you fetch a bucket of water?" she said to her companion, suddenly realizing how ill they might be. Will nodded and strode off towards the stream. "Come on, Robin. There's still work to be done."

Robin's brow furrowed slightly, and he turned his head slightly away from her, but did not wake. She prodded and needled him a few more times with few results, before giving up and moving on to Much.

"Hello, Much," she said brightly, slapping his cheek gently. "Time to get up." Much didn't even respond, just let out a small snore. She slapped his cheek again, harder, expecting a satisfying yelp, but Much simply screwed up his face in displeasure and slept on. Djaq was starting to become concerned. "Wake up, Much," she said loudly, shaking him. Nothing.

She moved on to each of the others in turn, shouting and slapping them each with increasing urgency and panic. "John? Allan? Lillian? Wake up, now. You have to wake up!"

Will emerged through the brush with a bucket of icy water in one arm. Without a word, Djaq took it from him and threw the freezing water across her sleeping companions.

"Djaq, what on earth are-" she held up a hand to shut him up, watching the gang tensely. A few of them stirred when the water hit them, grumbling in their sleep, but not one of them opened their eyes.

"They won't wake," Djaq said breathlessly. "Will, something is wrong."

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"Ah, Robert, my dear friend," the sheriff greeted his visitor with open arms. "You're looking… well," he added, glancing at his common rags and unshaven appearance.

"Don't you mock me," Robert said shortly, pulling off his floppy-brimmed hat to reveal a set of startling eyes – one brown, one blue. "I look like a filthy peasant. But it worked."

"He took the bait?" Vaysey asked with bated breath. Robert of Durham nodded.

"Easy. I just told them it was your ale, and they snapped it right up. Said they were going to have a party," he added nastily, with a smile.

A slow grin oozed sickeningly across the Sheriff's face. "Well done, my friend," he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Yes, well done indeed," he repeated, joyously, with an undignified little bounce. "How long until I can send my men into the forest to collect the corpses? For display purposes, you understand."

"It depends on when they drink it. If you go in too early, you'll scare them into leaving camp, abandoning the ale. Best give it a few days, to be sure they've drunk it, before sending in the dogs to sniff out their remains," advised Robert impatiently. "Now, as to the matter of payment…" he trailed off delicately.

"Ah, yes," nodded Vaysey, pulling out a purse of gold. Robert reached for it, but he held it back. "The other half of our deal?" he reminded him.

Robert exhaled sharply in irritation, but pulled out a small, nondescript wooden box, and handed it to Vaysey. "Best poison the Saracens ever devised. The effects look like a sleeping sickness, so as not to arouse suspicion, and not a soul this far west of Jerusalem will know the cure. No taste, no odour, no evidence, nothing to lead it back to you." He reached expectantly for the gold. Once again, Vaysey held it back.

"Yes, it all sounds very good in theory," he drawled. "But I think we'll wait to see how our friend Hood is feeling before you receive the full payment. When he turns up dead, you get your gold. I think I will give it a few days, as you suggest, before sending the dogs into the forest. You will get your payment then."

"That wasn't the deal-" protested Robert.

"I'm making it the deal," the Sheriff informed him coolly. "These guards will show you to your room," he gestured towards the host of armed men surrounding him, and Robert got the none-too-subtle hint.

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"So it's probably a drug, then? Some… sleeping draught to make us vulnerable?" Will's voice was panicked as he shook Robin's limp body more and more frantically. Djaq laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

"No," she shook her head, carefully opening one of Lillian's eyes to examine her pupils. "It doesn't make sense. Drugs wear off. If the Sheriff knew he had a chance to slip Robin something, he'd make sure it was poison. Unless the ale was sent by someone else, meant for the Sheriff…"

This time, Will shook his head. "Pretty sloppy idea. Everything the Sheriff eats or drinks is sent to a taster first. You'd have to get it past the taster, not just shove it in a cask in his storeroom"

Djaq nodded. "None of this adds up; there are plenty of poisons that are much quicker than this; why give us time to find an antidote?"

"Unless there is no antidote," Will said softly, his dark eyes panicked. Djaq bit her lip, looking down.

"If that is so, then it is so," she whispered. Even now, as everything that mattered in the world hung upon the edge of a knife, Djaq faced the future as she always had – with a kind of sensible, forced calm. She had seen her parents killed, watched her brother waste away to fever, and somewhere in her deepest throes of shock and grief, death had lost its mystique. She no longer whispered nervously at the bedside of the dying, nor did she lie to those therein. Death was a cold, cruel fact of the world, one which she had devoted her life to fighting, and she would show no fear in its presence. She set her jaw; there was work to be done.

Will was staring at her with eyes so frightened she felt herself weaken slightly, wanted to close her eyes and have it all go away, but she gathered her resolve and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We need more information," she told him steadily. "We need Marion."


	4. Chapter 4

Once again, big warm hugs to all of my reviewers. That last chapter was a bit short, so I hope this one makes up for it a bit. Enjoy!

MINOR SPOILER NOTE: This fic is, generally speaking, based in the first season, and spoiler-free. This chapter, however, references a character introduced in the second season who would have been living in Locksley for the first, so I thought it would be okay to use her. It's a fairly minor spoiler, and I don't mention any plot specifics of the second season.

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"Robin's been poisoned."

Marian blinked. Djaq had an efficiently blunt manner in times of crisis, and it took her a second to stomach. She went cold, but her face remained blank, as though she half-believed it to be a tasteless joke.

"Robin's…"

"…been poisoned," Djaq finished her sentence for her. "We think the Sheriff tricked him into stealing poisoned ale from a false merchant. I need to know what kind of poison it was if I am to find an antidote in time. I need you to… where are you going?"

Marion was already halfway to her horse, slipping a bit between its teeth, and notching the various clasps and buckles of its tack with nimble, practiced speed. "I'm going to him," she said shortly. "I need to see him."

"He won't even wake up!" Djaq insisted, trying to push between Marian and her horse and make eye contact with the distraught woman. "I've checked them, there's no more that can be done for him…"

Marian refused to hear these words, sidestepping Djaq to continue her saddling. "If Robin is ill, I will go to him," she said simply. The idea that Robin might be facing death was so singular in her mind that none of Djaq's pleading words penetrated her defenses. All she could think about was that long night when she had been stabbed, and Robin's voice, his gentle hands and reassuring presence had been the only thing that had held her to this life. She had to be his anchor. She had to be by his side, to do otherwise was simply unthinkable. Abandoning him was not an option.

Djaq caught Marian's busy hands and held them firmly in an attempt to force her to listen. Marion froze for a moment, then gripped Djaq's hand and twisted her wrist painfully, making her wince and turn slightly to alleviate the pressure.

"I said, I am going to him," she hissed stubbornly. "And you are not going to stop me."

Djaq's steely will arose, easily the equal of Marion's, and she yanked her arm free and stepped directly between Marion and her horse, holding her eye with a sharp stare. "And what good will you do him? Weeping and wailing at his bedside will not bring him back to life if I can't find the antidote in time. He will die, whether you hold his hand at the time or not, unless you help me. Robin doesn't need a silly girl right now, he needs the Nightwatchman. Which are you, Marian?"

Marion froze, slightly chastened, and stared at the side of Djaq she had rarely seen before. Her words had touched a nerve, broken down her determined, purposeful wall and forced her to confront what was really happening. Tears threatened her, tearing at her eyes and throat, but she forced them down, along with her pride and irrational anger at Djaq.

"How can I help him?" she asked quietly. Djaq relaxed slightly.

"By going to the castle and finding out exactly what he was poisoned with, and what the antidote is. Trick Gisbourne into telling you, or the Sheriff. Break into his records or… anything. Anything you can think of to get this information. Marian, everything is at stake now."

Marion nodded, and stepped towards her horse, this time with level-headed determination, and Djaq didn't resist. She threw her leg over the saddle and settled herself briefly. She looked down at Djaq, whose face was still grave but now with a slight glimmer of hope behind her eyes.

"I will be waiting just outside the castle walls," Djaq told her. "Send word as quick as you can."

With a sharp nod, Marion kicked her steed and shot off down the dirt road, her horse's hooves beating a rhythm akin to her heartbeat.

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Will was pacing. This was not something he did often, and it looked strange on his lanky frame, like he itched inside his very skin. He loped back and forth, fidgeting, and glancing about like a rabbit watching for prey. His usual approach to dangerous situations was to quietly watch and listen, or to charge in with everything he had – there was no middle ground. But here, in the painfully tense stillness Djaq had left behind, there was nothing to do but wait for her return, blindly and helplessly. So, he paced like a caged animal, trying not to think about the devastating chemicals raging through his friends' veins.

Of course, he had argued when Djaq had told him to stay home like some caretaker or nursemaid. This wasn't so much out of pride as it was the desperate urge to do something; however even he had to concede that there wasn't much he _could _do in these circumstances, and somebody needed to stay with the gang in case Gisbourne showed up. He didn't like sending Djaq and Marion on this mission alone, either, and the thought of either of them hurt or captured made him ill. Fighting alongside Djaq had given him a new perspective on women on the battlefield, but he was still imbued, deep down, with an unshakeable sense of chivalry, and it annoyed him no end to be left babysitting while the women fought their battles. He should be there to protect them. He should be there to protect _her_.

With a sharp exhale, he forced himself to look at the limp bodies of his companions, and his stomach sank at the sight of them. Were they a little paler than before? Weaker? He knelt beside Allan, who was lying by his foot, and tentatively laid his fingers on his forehead, as though afraid to touch him. He withdrew with a gasp, moving on to the others, one by one, feeling their faces and hands as well.

There was no mistaking it. Their skin was clammy and cold, much colder than when they had been discovered. They were still breathing shallowly, but they no longer twitched or reacted when he slapped or shouted at them. They were getting worse.

Will stood, running his hands agitatedly through his hair. What good was he doing here? He was no doctor, all he could do was watch them waste away. Even if Gisbourne did show up, he was only one man – what was he supposed to do? There must be something, some way he could be useful.

Will grabbed his axe and slid it into its holster on his back. One thing was for sure; sitting around here was pointless. He needed someone who knew what she was doing. He needed Matilda.

Djaq had always been unimpressed by English doctors, claiming they killed more patients than they helped, and Will had to concede that Djaq seemed to understand a lot more about the human body than any English doctor he had met. Matilda, however, was not a doctor, she was a wise woman, one who had been treating patients longer than Djaq had been walking. She would come running if she heard Robin was hurt, and if this was a poison she would surely recognize it. Anything was better than hanging around here.

With a long, regretful stare at the limp bodies of his friends, Will turned and ran off through the undergrowth as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving them helpless and alone under the open sky.

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As the Nightwatchman stepped warily, yet confidently, into the damp cellar of an alchemist's lab, her nose was assaulted by a rich, discordant mix of smells, some sharp, some sweet, some putrid. She easily put the guards out of action, and crept towards the oak tables in the cluttered room. Djaq had been here once, when the Sheriff tried to force her to create her Saracen chemical, and glancing an eye over the dusty, untouched tables Marion wondered if anyone had been here since. She stepped carefully amid the tables, touching this, smelling that, but understanding nothing.

Every second she wasted here Robin was weakening, and Marion took a deep breath of impatience and worry. She was running out of options. She began to rifle through the various debris with slightly panicked fervor, no longer caring if anyone heard, no longer caring what happened to her so long as she cured Robin first. It had been so long since the Sheriff had had an alchemist that nothing in the cramped room was free of the thin, silky layer of dust that coated everything, floor to ceiling.

Nothing except one item; a plain wooden box had clearly been placed only recently onto the greyed shelf, and was polished and clean of dust. Marian carefully lifted off the lid to reveal a flat, round bottle, twice the size of her clenched fist, resting on the deep red cushion within the box. It was filled with a colourless liquid, resembling water, and the cork had been sealed tightly on with wax. A brown label was tied to the neck of the bottle, and Marion turned if over to reveal some incomprehensible writing; delicate curves and flicks of the pen formed a foreign but clearly rational script. Saracen writing? Marion tucked the poison into a pocket at her hip.

"What did you think?" a cold voice drawled from the doorway, "That we would leave our newest weapon so poorly guarded?"

Marion's breath caught in her throat, and she turned around slowly. Sir Guy and several nasty-looking guards blocked the doorway. A cruel smile played about his lips.

"Good to see you, Nightwatchman," he sneered "Now, I'll have that bottle back."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers. It really brightens my day to hear from you! I hope you're enjoying.

I also hope this fic is helping you deal with the shellshock of the final episode :'(... Anyway, here's the chapter. Its a little short, I'm afraid, I'm hoping the next one's a little longer.

CHAPTER 5

Marian's grip tightened around the dagger at her belt, but she was not stupid enough to try a direct attack. There were three of them, Sir Guy and two lackeys, and all three had wickedly sharp swords drawn and pointed at her. If she'd been able to speak, she might have screamed in frustration. She didn't have time for this!

"Come, come," Guy sneered, clearly enjoying himself. "You haven't a chance to escape. Surrender, and I may be merciful." His tone said otherwise.

Marian remained silent, eyes darting about the room. Guy became impatient, advancing into the room slightly, flanked by his guards.

"Cat got your tongue, Nightwatchman? Never mind. I'll hear your voice when you're screaming on the rack!"

Marian may have been smaller than Guy, but she was a great deal quicker also. As he drew close to her, raising his sword for a crushing downward stroke, she ducked and rolled agilely under a table, flinching as his sword bit into the wood above her and stuck. Just as he yanked the blade free, she kicked the underside of the table with both feet and all her might. It struck him in the chest, making him stagger back, and she took the opportunity to duck between two of the shelf units, narrowly avoiding the grasp of one of the guards. She hesitated a moment. One of the guards had stayed by the door, blocking her escape, and she couldn't dance around the other two forever. She staggered back a few feet, putting another shelf unit between her and the prowling guard.

Suddenly, an idea struck her and she grinned widely beneath her mask. She braced all her weight against the shelf and pushed. With creaking slowness it toppled over, crashing into two other shelves like a line of dominoes.

"Out of the way!" Shouted Gisbourne as jars and bottles rained down and broke. A hundred mysterious chemicals splashed out and mixed on the stone floor. Some smoked, some hissed, some sent up foul odours that burned the eyes and made breathing difficult. Guy and the guards coughed and choked, but the Nightwatchman's mouth was covered by a scarf, which filtered out the worst of the stench. The shelves made a mass of broken lumber and foul chemicals right over the door, and had knocked out the guard who blocked her way. The broken rubble was an obstacle, but with luck she might just squeeze through a gap in the pile, a gap too small for the Gisbourne or his guards to fit through.

Holding her breath against the putrid air, Marian shot through the chaos towards the door, ignoring Guy's enraged cries of "Grab him!" and threw herself headfirst through the largest gap. It was a tight fit, but she wriggled like a snake towards freedom.

"Not this time, Nightwatchman!" growled Guy, and Marian felt a powerful grip constrict around her ankle. She struggled, but he was pulling her back despite her efforts.

With an animalistic growl of effort, Marion aimed a kick with her other foot, a kick that struck its mark right on target. Guy released her ankle out of reflex, his hand flying to his face, momentarily stunned. Marion scrabbled through the gap without a second thought, bruising her elbows and knees in the struggle.

She didn't even pause for a breath in the aftermath, but shot off towards the exit, Gisbourne's call for guards echoing after her.

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Impatiently brushing the dark blood from beneath his nostril, Guy screamed after his enemy until his face glowed red. He tried to force his body through the small gap in the rubble she had squeezed through, but fitting through was out of the question. He began to tear away at the rubble in his rage, refusing to admit the Nightwatchman had escaped him again.

"Dear me, Gisbourne," a cool voice cooed through the rubble, "You have made a mess of things, haven't you?"

"My lord, the Nightwatchman," Gisbourne stuttered, peering at Vaysey through the wreckage. "He's taken the Saracen poison. We can still catch him if…"

But Vaysey's face had split into a serpentine grin, and Guy paused for a moment in confusion, "My lord, the poison… was it not valuable?"

"Oh, very," Vaysey nodded. "But Hood is more valuable. If the Nightwatchman is after the poison then he's probably looking for an antidote. That means Hood must have drunk the poison all ready, does it not?" He turned to the sharp-faced guard who stood at his side, ignoring Gisbourne's stutters. "Let the Nightwatchman go, there are larger matters at hand. I want our fastest riders and keenest dogs sent into the forest immediately. I want what's left of the outlaws dragged back to me and hung from my battlements, is that understood? Oh, and," he added as an afterthought, "send someone in here to clean up Gisbourne's mess, will you?"

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Matilda was not in her home. She was not at the market place, nor did any of the local villagers know where she could be. Probably visiting the home of some sick unfortunate, most advised, but none could tell him which house that would be. Will doubled over, his hands on his knees, indulging in a few moments to catch his breath. Matilda's coarse scolding and foul-mouthed shouting was a sound he'd feared all through his childhood, but what he wouldn't give to hear that familiar sound now! He ran a hand across his sweat-moistened brow and gathered his thoughts. With a groan of discomfort (a stitch in his side was nagging him, growing continuously) Will took up a jog and continued his search. Perhaps she had been taken to the castle, to treat someone there? It was not unheard of for the Sheriff to call on the local healers, or perhaps he was merely hiding her away in case she tried to treat Robin and the others. It would explain why no one knew where she was, at least.

"Will!" A hoarse, loud whisper emerged from behind him just as he drew near the castle, and he turned to see Djaq, hooded, staring at him with a mixture of anger and shock. "What are you doing here? Who is watching the others?"

"I came to help," he hissed back at her, checking side to side in case someone was listening. "I was doing no good waiting around there. Even if Gisbourne came by, what was I supposed to do? I'm only one man!"

"You'd think of something," Djaq spat angrily. "We can't just leave them alone and exposed, Will!"

Will set his jaw stubbornly, about to snap back at her, when an arrow whipped through the air beside them and thudded into a nearby tree. They flinched and crouched low, expecting an attack, but none came. Few had even noticed the arrow fly by. Djaq cocked her brow and pulled the arrow from the tree. Tied to it was a small, brown slip of paper.

Will stared up in the direction of the shooter, and caught a quick glimpse of a masked face and a swirl of cloak before the Nightwatchman swept out of view and off the battlements. "Marian," he grinned. "Djaq, it's from Marian!"

Djaq was already unrolling the paper from the arrow shaft. She was surprised to see it written in her own language, two unlikely words that made her blink in surprise.

"Djaq?" Will asked softly, almost afraid of the answer. Djaq's face was concentrated, betraying neither hope nor despair. "Do you know what it is? Is there an antidote?"

"I think…" Djaq swallowed. "I think there may be. I need to go to the Trip."

"The inn?" asked Will, confused. "Djaq, what does a tavern have to do with…"

Djaq interrupted him. "We don't have time for explainations. Find Marian, and get back to camp and the others. I'll meet you there."

"With the antidote?" Will asked. Djaq allowed herself a small smile and a deep breath.

"Yes, I think so. I'll see you soon." With that, she clapped him on the shoulder and took off in the direction of the local tavern, leaving Will confused and worried, but with hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for the lovely reviews. I hope this chapter eases the tension a bit... (muhahaha...)

Quite a lot of angst for you, today, folks. I'm of too minds about this chapter. I can't decide whether I'm pleased with it or if I went over the top with it. Do let me know (and don't be afraid to criticize, I don't bite :) )

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Djaq's feet pounded the ground faster and faster, her mind racing and her heart in her throat. The small brown poison label was still clutched in her hand, its Arabic letters tracing the name of an obscure poison her father had told her about once, in passing. She grinned despite herself, pleased beyond measure that she had remembered.

Wood Spirit, he had called it, a strange drug that burned quickly and caused a state of inebriation, nausea, and eventually, unconsciousness. It is clear, and bitter, but taken in ale would be difficult to discern. The symptoms of the drug would be mistaken for drunkenness, at least at first. Taken in high doses, death could occur in a matter of hours. The Sheriff had chosen his poison carefully.

She almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, and their utter, unbelievable luck! For there was a cure for wood spirit, a simple cure, one which any peasant might easily procure. That cure was alcohol. Some property of strong drink counteracted the dangerous effects of wood spirit, and the patients would usually improve very quickly. The alcohol in the beer they drank that night must have slowed the poison, helped their bodies to cope, but the ale was too weak to entirely cancel the high dose of poison, and had merely delayed its effects. That was why they had withstood it so long, when the Sheriff had access to poisons that could finish them far quicker. Pure, dumb luck!

Time was still short, however, and without more drink the wood spirit would finish them for sure, if it hadn't already. Djaq burst through the doors of the Trip to Jerusalem Inn, panting for breath, and sprinted to the counter.

"Have you any strong mead, or wine? The stronger the better," she gasped.

The proprietor was a sour faced woman, shaggy-haired and sunken-eyed, and she looked down at the shorter woman with suspicion. No one came by this early in the day except for hardened, lost drinkers, and Djaq was certainly not one of those. She eyed the younger woman with obvious dislike. "A little early for 'eavy drinkin', isn't it?" she sneered. "Mead don't come cheap," she added.

Djaq pulled a purse from her belt and dropped it on the counter, allowing the copper and silver coins to spill out along the scarred wood. She silently apologized to the poor of Nottingham, for she had taken it all from the dwindling poor chest. "I can pay," she said shortly. "Fill me a large wineskin of your strongest liquor."

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"So Djaq said she has the cure?" Marian asked tensely as she and Will made their way through the undergrowth of Sherwood Forest. Will hesitated. Djaq's manner had been far from reassuring, but if there were no hope she would have said so.

"I think she does," he answered, a little uncomfortably, worry nipping at his own voice. Marian was pushing through the brush so quickly and violently that even long-legged Will was struggling to keep up.

"How much farther is it to camp?" she asked for the twentieth time, and Will suppressed a sigh of exasperation.

"Just over that raised hill," he gasped, stumbling over a fallen tree branch. Marian set off for the hill without another word, as though the hounds of Hell were at her heels. Will jogged on after her.

As Marian reached the crest of the Hill, she gave a small gasp and dropped to the ground. Will quickly followed suit, masking the sound of his footsteps and listening with bated breath for whatever had frightened her. She had pressed herself behind a tree, and looked down at him tensely. "The Sheriff" she mouthed silently, and Will gradually became aware of cold voices echoing through the chilly autumn air. He bit his lip, and Marion lifted her Nightwatchman mask to cover her face.

They lay on their bellies at the top of the wooded hill, peering down at the scene before them. The gang lay limply where he had left them, like soldiers on a ghastly battlefield. Vaysey, perched atop a pitch-black horse smiled down at them, showing his damaged teeth, and no fewer than ten armed men flanked him on either side, some holding the leashes of several slavering dogs. They picked about the camp, kicking and roughly examining the bodies, searching for valuables, or simply destroying the camp for spite. None of them, however, moved to harm any of the outlaws.

"Too bad I was too late to end it myself," Vaysey was saying to no one in particular, surveying the scene with the utmost satisfaction. "They were already dead when we arrived."

The very air seemed to freeze at these words, like the whole world had suddenly become an unreal, dreamlike place. Nothing made sense if Robin and the outlaws could be dead, just like that, with no ceremony, no sacrifice, no final words. Nothing. Legends don't die. Heroes don't die. So Robin can't be dead. The world doesn't work like that.

Except it does. The world works exactly like that.

A sound shattered through the stillness of the air, splintering the silence into a thousand pieces. The sound was of Marian letting loose a howl of rage and grief and bitterness. It was a sound that seemed to swallow the world whole, an unearthly sound that struck Vaysey and his men to the very core. And suddenly, like an apparition from their darkest nightmares, the Nightwatchman was upon them, sword flashing and eyes hungering for blood.

Will was shaken from his shock to see her sword bite into the first guard, a spurt of hot blood hitting the leaves below. He stood and drew his axe. His tears dropped from his eyes and his shaking hands became still and strong. Teeth bared like an animal, he launched himself into the fray.

Ten to two are not good odds, but odds and figures held no meaning in this world gone mad. The bodies of their friends at their feet, Marian and Will fought like tigers, fought for everything in the world that they had loved and lost to this despicable man. Vaysey backed his horse up a few feet, his frantic shouts of "get them! Kill them!" mingling with the snarls of the snapping dogs, but it seemed as though no force on Earth could stop these two wild creatures and their flurry of steel. After a few moments hesitation, the Sheriff tugged on his reigns and galloped off into the forest. Marian screamed again, her hot rage and frustration striking terror into her foes, but Vaysey was gone, and she had no way to follow. She vented her impotent bloodlust for Vaysey into the guards before her, guards who to her had become faceless and evil in her singular, focused mind.

Will hadn't even noticed, and he struck blindly at his foes, neither knowing nor caring what happened to him so long as he did as much damage as possible before he fell. He was angrier than he had ever been in his entire life, twenty-four years of frustration and wrath at the powers above him finally coming to a head. If the gang were dead, there was nothing left to believe in. Nothing mattered but the rage and the blood and the kill. So thick was his blood wrath that he didn't even see the swordstroke coming, didn't even feel the edge of the blade meet his skin or the hot blood seeping through his shirt. It wasn't until his knees had buckled and he crumpled to the ground that the stillness of the air came over him again. The sounds of the battle pulled away, sounding distant and the realization of what had happened drained him of his wrath. Will dropped forward into the dry leaves, clutching his stomach, and curled up on the ground.

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The wineskin dropped heavily to the ground as Djaq emerged from the trees just in time to see Will fall, and she watched with mute horror as his blood spilled across the bright autumn leaves. Her sword was in her hand before she even realized it, and she charged the guard who had hurt her friend. With precise, balanced movements she ran him through, feeling no bloodlust or satisfaction in the kill, feeling nothing but the need to get to Will, to fix him, to save him…

The sight of one more enraged outlaw breaking into the fray seemed to be the last straw for the terrified guards, and they ran off in the direction of the castle, the surviving dogs following them, tails between their legs. Djaq knelt by Will, her cool hands tilting his face up to see her, and he squinted up as though she blinded him.

"Djaq," he said softly, a blissful look flitting across his face for a moment before being replaced by a grimace of pain. To her deep terror, she saw blood staining his teeth and lips. If blood was coming from inside, then…

"Shh…" Djaq said soothingly, though her own heart was thumping in her chest. She forced herself to examine his wound, gentle fingers pulling up his bloody shirt, blinking back the tears that blurred her vision.

She almost sobbed with relief. The slash was nasty, and fairly deep, but it was a flesh wound. It began at his ribs on his left side, spreading to his right hipbone, and though it was ugly and bleeding profusely, it was not deep enough to have penetrated any vital organs. The blood on his lips and teeth must have been from a punch in the jaw earlier in the fight, not from internal bleeding. Lacking bandages or equipment, Djaq shook her cloak from her shoulders and used it to staunch the bleeding. Will moaned softly as she put pressure on the wound, and Djaq pressed her lips softly to his sweat-slick forehead, mumbling prayers of gratitude in Arabic. He would live.

Marian let her sword fall from her fingers and thud into the earth, the absence of enemies forcing her to look upon what had been taken from her. Once again, the whole world stopped to watch her rage turn to grief and she fell to her knees at Robin's side. For a moment she was afraid to touch him, as though feeling his clay cold skin, the stillness of him, would make it all real and not some false dream. For moments that stretched towards eternity, Marian reached for him; slowly, hesitantly, she laid one hand upon his cheek and felt him, cold as ice and unmoving. The dam broke and she wept, a harsh cry of grief tearing from her throat unbidden as she sobbed upon his chest.

Djaq and Will watched silently, tears rolling down their own faces, wishing to comfort her but knowing it would be useless, still caught up in their own shock and grief. They couldn't really be gone, could they?

Marian suddenly grew still, trembling only slightly, and lifted her face to look at Robin through her tears. She kissed his unmoving lips, a kiss that she held on to as though it were her last link to Robin himself.

Her eyes flicked open, and a small, shocked inhale passed her lips. She sat up, studying Robin intently, shaking fingers examining his face, resting just underneath his nose.

"Djaq," she choked desperately. "Djaq I think… I think I felt him breathe…"

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: You didn't think I'd actually kill the gang just like that, did you? Just in case you're interested, I have a little information on the poison I used. I'm not famous for my use of research, and for the purposes of this fic I considered simply inventing a poison straight out of the blue and pretending it was historical. I had a brief look around wikipedia and google, but didn't find anything that fit the time period and geography. But then I saw an episode of House (a medical drama I am fond of) in which a patient was treated for methanol (sometimes called wood alcohol, wood spirit, or wood naptha) poisoning by drinking tequila. The ethyl alcohol bonds with the methanol, making it harmless. The symptoms of methanol poisoning are loosely similar to those in the fic, but have been tweaked a little. Pure methanol wasn't synthesized until much later than this, but an impure form was used in ancient Egypt to preserve the mummies, so it was within the Saracens' capabilities at the time to synthesize it. Ethanol, or drinking alcohol, was first distilled as a pure compound by Arab scientists in the 800s AD, so its not too much of a stretch to say they may have discovered methanol in some form as well. So, to sum up, I didn't totally make it up, but it's not entirely factual either (which kind of fits with the show, if you think about it)


	7. Chapter 7

I feel like I've been neglecting all my lovely commenters! Let me just say thanks to everyone who took the time to give me their opinions - I really do take them into account when I'm writing. So, IAmtheLev, PigtheProphetess, leafdom, maggierg, suzanne, Gewher, MyDearDelerious, ElGringoLoco and PetiteDiable, I'm sending out my warmest, fuzziest karma to you :).

To make up for my prolonged absence, this chapter is nice and long. I think it might be my favorite so far. Anyway, there is probably only one more chapter (with a possible epilogue) to this fic, before I begin the final installment of the trilogy, The Jealous Knight.

Hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER SEVEN

The world was spinning furiously, relentlessly, around his head, and he wished harder than anything for it to stop, just stay still and let him rest. Nausea churned in his belly and he thirsted helplessly, but his arms and legs felt heavy, so heavy, and he couldn't bring himself to pry his eyes open and reach for water. It was as though a weighted curtain had been laid across his body, holding him down, cutting him off from the world and making breathing difficult. He faded in and out from blackness to dreams, frightening, surreal dreams that confused and terrified him.

He wondered in his delerium if he were dead. This didn't seem like death should be. And anyway, he was breathing, wasn't he? In and out, in and out, slowly, like the pull of the tides. Something in him didn't want to let go of his breaths, some voice at the back of his mind bullied him into pushing air into and out of his body. It seemed like so much work.

Movement. Pain. Sickness. Thirst. Then, suddenly, something else. Cool hands on his face, movement around his body, and soft lips meeting his. He floated just under the surface of consciousness, responding to the touch. It was familiar. He knew those lips, and a name, lost in the mists of his delerium, teased him. He grasped for it, and for all the warmth and promise it held, and nothing else in the world seemed important, not the spinning or the thirst or the breaths…

Suddenly, something else met his lips, something bitter and strong, and he felt his stomach heave in response. No, no, this was the last thing he needed. He feebly tried to escape the foul, heady liquid, but firm hands held his cheeks, opening his mouth and forcing drops down his throat. He choked and spluttered and tried to protest, but the hands were relentless, and more and more of the burning liquid made its way down his throat. Eventually it stopped, and he heaved but kept it down, preparing to slip back into the familiar blackness…

Except he couldn't. His senses were sharpening, his thoughts becoming more coherent, and he threatened to break the surface of consciousness. The cool hands still rested on his forehead, and he found himself wishing desperately to see her face, this woman who refused to let him rest. The wave broke, and Robin Hood opened his eyes and squinted upwards to look into the face of an angel.

"Marian…?" he croaked, his throat dry as desert. She shushed him gently, beaming down at him with a smile that seemed brighter than the sun itself, and ran a gentle hand over his cheek.

"He is awake?" asked another familiar voice, and this time the confusion lingered only momentarily before he recovered the name to fit the voice. Djaq knelt by his side, peering into his eyes and examining him carefully. "Welcome back, Robin," she said softly, patting him on the shoulder. "We thought you were dead," she added, standing up. "Good thing for you the Sheriff's useless guards couldn't take a pulse to save their lives."

Marian decided not to point out how frighteningly close to death the gang had been, how even she had missed his faint breath and sluggish heartbeat at first. Had the Sheriff's men come to the same realization a little earlier, the Sheriff would have run them all through to finish the job. It seemed almost like a sign; they had been close enough to death to escape the Sheriff's steel, but still strong enough to take to Djaq's antidote. Best not to worry him with that yet. Instead she smoothed his tousled hair and gazed down at him unable to quite believe that something so precious had nearly been taken away.

"I dreamed of you," Robin murmured through his lingering confusion. It seemed important to tell her this.

As Marian drew breath to whisper sweet words to her beloved, the touching scene was suddenly and unromantically interrupted by the sounds of the rest of the gang gaining consciousness; Allan let loose a stream of colourful (and extremely imaginative, all things considered) swear words at the pain in his head, John simply growled wordlessly like an animal, and Lillian rolled over and threw up noisily into the leaves. Djaq scurried off to tend to them, seeming pleased with their progress, and Robin and Marian had to content themselves with a soft kiss.

"God's wounds," Allan finally groaned, covering his eyes with an arm to shield his pounding head from the burning sunlight. "I must've drank enough for a sodding army last night!"

With a cocked eyebrow, Djaq dipped a wooden cup into the bucket of icy water she had fetched, and offered it to Allan, who sucked it down greedily. "You did," Djaq agreed. "But also, you were poisoned."

Allan didn't seem to believe her, but Much squinted over at her. "Poisoned?" he wheezed stupidly. "The ale was…"

"Poisoned," Will confirmed. He was sitting up, leaning against a tree and looking very pale, his arms clenched around his bandaged middle. John squinted blearily at him. "What happened to you?" he asked

Will shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "While you lot were taking a nap, Marian and Djaq and I were saving your sorry lives," he told him loftily, and left it at that for the time being.

Allan, meanwhile, had woken up with a mixture of grouchiness, self-pity, and his usual wry brand of humor. "I'll kill him," he muttered incomprehensibly, his voice muffled into his own arms. "Trying to kill us, that's old news, but ruining all that lovely amber ale? That's going too far, mate…"

"He must be stopped," agreed Djaq with a small smile. "Rest as much as you can for now, we'll have to get moving soon. The Sheriff knows where this camp is, we'll have to move as soon as you have the strength."

Judging from the collective groans, whines, and complaints of the gang, (not to mention Lillian's continued retching) they clearly didn't have the strength, and Djaq rolled her eyes, too pleased at their recovery to be annoyed with them. Her relief was overwhelming, and she felt like laughing and crying all at once to see life returning to their eyes, to hear the familiar whining and stupid jokes she'd thought she might never hear again. It's true, that old saying, that you don't know what you've got until it's lost. This rabble, this handful of ragged, filthy, crude and thoroughly irritating Englishmen had nearly broken her heart, and Djaq's was a heart kept well guarded. She glanced at Will and was surprised at herself to feel a slight rush of anger at the sight of him.

She gave them more time to recover, wearied with command and wishing silently that Robin were well enough to resume leadership. Marian was too busy fawning over him to take a leadership position (and telling others what to do was clearly not to her taste anyway) and now that Will was injured Djaq had to shoulder all the responsibility herself. Not that he had been all that much help before he was hurt, she added bitterly to herself, and was again shocked by the strength of her anger. She told herself she was irritated at his thoughtlessness, leaving the group exposed, but a woman more honest and in touch with her deeper emotions might have realized her resentment came from a different source…

When she'd decided they could wait no longer, Djaq began to bully the others into moving. Strictly speaking they should have had much longer to rest, but enough time had passed since the Sheriff had left for reinforcements that Djaq was getting nervous. Granted, since he thought they were already dead he might take his time, or maybe not even bother coming at all, but that was a risk she was unwilling to take. With Marian's help she poked, shouted, implored and persuaded until the others to get unsteadily to their feet. They were groggy, sick, and weak, and needed a good deal of help to make it across the rough terrain of the forest, but at least they were beginning to make some progress.

"Hang on a minute," Robin stopped them just before leaving the camp.

Djaq badgered him, "We can't stop, Robin," she began.

"Just a minute," he repeated, walking back with a mix of a drunken stagger and his usual smug strut. "I want to leave a little message for our good friends the Sheriff and Gisbourne."

----------------------

The sun was weary and weak, the warm colour of egg yolk, and it was drooping low in the sky by the time Vaysey, Gisbourne, and a host of armed men returned to the bloody spot of the earlier battle. Following warily at the back of the line was Robert of Durham, once more resplendent in the rich clothes of his heritage, nevertheless looking more and more nervous, his fingers constantly twitching towards the hilt of his blade.

Vaysey swung down from his horse, quietly smouldering with the crazed anger that was always just below the surface of his chilled, sarcastic exterior. Confused, he circled the battleground, noting the blood in the leaves and the bodies of the fallen, but not a one of them wore the outlaws' tag.

"Where are they?" he snarled lowly. Suddenly he lashed out, kicking a discarded wineskin that lay on the ground. It flopped limply over in an unsatisfying manner. "The Nightwatchman and some skinny peasant boy couldn't have carried them away in this time, where in God's name are they?" he shrieked. "They were dead, I saw them!"

"Are you sure? Did you check his pulse yourself?" Gisbourne asked lowly, trying to hide his smirk. As much as he wanted Hood dead, quietly wasting away in the forest was too good for the man. No, Gisbourne craved the weight of Hood's body on his blade, which no poisoning could compare to, and he was secretly relieved to think Hood might have escaped to die another day. Anyway, he was spitefully enjoying the sight of Vaysey humiliated and enraged and, for once, it could in no way be blamed on him.

"No, I didn't check them myself!" snarled Vaysey. "I don't dirty my hands with…" he trailed off has his eyes met the haphazard pile of empty casks beside the long-dead campfire. He had noticed them the first time he'd seen the campsite, but they were different now, they'd been piled up and arranged. The top cask had something written on it in black soot from a charred stick from the fire:

"_Thanks for the drink!_"

Underneath was scrawled a clear drawing of a bow and arrow, Robin's symbol, and the script was jaunty and cheerful. Vaysey made a sound like steam escaping a kettle and turned on Robert of Durham.

"You said your poison was perfect…"

"Perfect, my lord? Well, I didn't use those exact wo-" Durham stuttered.

"You said it was quick," Vaysey interrupted, his voice steadily increasing in volume and pitch. "You said there was no antidote!"

"No, I said no one this side of the world would know it," stammered Durham weakly. Vaysey rounded on him.

"Really?" he hissed. "And what, pray tell, was the antidote? Think carefully."

"Well," Robert swallowed. "Tests were… I mean, we haven't conclusively… nevertheless, there was some improvement when subjects were given… strong drink…"

"Strong drink?" Echoed the Sheriff. "The cure for the poison was… the liquid you served it in?"

Before Robert could reply, the Sherif had turned on his heel and strode back to his horse. He moved to follow, but Vaysey held up a hand. "Kill him," he hissed, and a horde of guards drew their bows, arrows pointed at his throat.

"Wait!" shouted Robert desperately. "My Lord… I… you need me!" he blurted out, and the Sheriff froze, gesturing to the guards to hold. With a breath of relief, he continued. "I'm your link to the Saracen supply lines, remember? Without me, you get nothing – no information, no weapons, no Saracen science."

Vaysey considered this for a long moment, steaming with rage but forced to admit that the lesser lord had a point. As much as he longed to watch his guts spill out onto the forest floor, he was far more valuable alive. He gestured to the guards to lower their weapons, and Durham breathed a deep sigh of relief. Vaysey took a few short, threatening steps forward.

"Then I'll let you live," he said lowly, looking him up and down. "For now. But you'd better make it worth my while at the next delivery, or I swear you'll wish I'd killed you this day. Get out of my sight."

---------------------------------

Djaq drove the gang like a slavedriver, nagging them to keep up the pace, and scurrying to and fro covering their tracks as they walked. Eventually, with a few restrained words, Robin resumed his (somewhat grouchy) leadership, and Djaq contented herself with helping support Will, who was struggling worse than any of them. After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling over rocks and rough ground, he let them rest at under the crest of a hill, somewhat sheltered and hidden by a tangle of jutting roots above them. They reclined uncomfortably, silent except for the occasional gurgle of a squirming stomach.

Lillian hulked on the bare ground like a mound of pure malice, her arms gathered around her and her eyes squinting nastily at nothing in particular. She was grouchy and sick as any of them, but she was also angry, angry at Allan for something he'd said the night before.

_… she just wished she could remember what it was_!

She remembered shouting at him, that much was clear. And she remembered being pleased with her poetic use of vocabulary, the foul things she had compared him unfavorably to and the various items she had instructed him to insert about his person. But exactly _what_ he had said to upset her so much, she had no idea. She'd drank far more than she should have that night, not to mention the dull haze the wood spirit had cast over her brain, and so she had misplaced most of her memories of the previous night. She was so good at being angry she'd forgotten exactly what she was angry about. And she was _damned_ if she was going to admit it!

He'd apologized vaguely to her on the walk over. He'd been giving her sidelong guilty looks for a while, but it wasn't until he brought himself to apologize that she'd remembered to be angry with him. He wasn't much good at apologies, far preferring a reconciliatory joke and a charming wink, which usually served a similar purpose. In this instance, however, he'd appeared to at least make some token effort, stuttering that he'd been stupid, and finishing with a quick "sorry" and a dumb joke. She had accepted his apology before realizing she couldn't remember what he'd done. Now she was stewing to herself, feeling like she'd let him off too easy. She quietly resolved to be grouchy and irritating for a while until she felt he'd paid for whatever he'd done.

A short ways away from the others, Will reclined stiffly on a bank as Djaq knelt silently beside him, her cool fingers gently cleaning his wound and checking for tears or popped stitches. She'd stitched him up while the others were still unconscious and recovering, feeling like a monster as every pull of the thread gave rise to a stifled noise of pain. When her distress had faded, however, it was replaced, to her own surprise, with smoldering resentment. She resented him for his hardheadedness, for ignoring her instructions, for almost getting himself killed right in front of her. Most of all, she resented how quickly it all seemed to have rolled off his shoulders, like his suicidal charge had been just another of their skirmishes. She knew better. You don't fight like that if you expect to come out alive.

It was the kind of argument where what is left unsaid far outweighs the words spoken. Djaq carefully pulled his bandage back to check the damage, ignoring his sharp inhale as the cold air hit his tender flesh.

He grimaced as she began to gently explore the wound. "Easy there," he told her, with a half-smile. She continued her work as though he hadn't spoke.

"You're tough, you can take it," she told him coldly. He looked up at her, surprised.

"Djaq? What's wrong?"

"Oh, you care about what I think, now?" she snapped. "It wasn't too long ago you were ignoring me to go charging off on your own, leaving the others exposed and nearly getting yourself killed."

Will felt irritation rising in his chest, but some instinct also told him there was more to this than she was letting on. Nevertheless, he couldn't quite let her unfair accusations slide. "I don't take orders from you," he reminded her, his words coming out slightly harsher than he intended. "I did what I thought was best."

"Yes, you always do," she snapped. "Even when that includes suicidal heroics."

Will searched for words, a little overwhelmed by her sudden burst of temper. "I thought the gang was dead!"

"Oh, well, in that case, fine. Nothing left to live for, eh?" She didn't meet his eyes, suddenly realizing she'd gone too far, come to close to revealing too much.

Will felt it too, his anger diminishing slightly. He wanted to say something insightful, sensitive, brilliant… anything, really, but all he came up with was: "Djaq…"

She cut him off by tightening his bandages a good deal more roughly than necessary. He gasped in pain and she, having finished both her task and her argument, stalked off to rejoin the others, where he wouldn't dare bicker with her further. All he could do was stare at her back with a mixture of anger, hurt, and confusion.


	8. Chapter 8

Dear everyone: I'm profusely sorry its taken me so long to update. School's been busy, and I've been feeling a little uninspired lately. Anyway, I'm hoping to get back on that horse now and onto a regular update schedule. (fingers crossed)

Lots and love and thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to Chickadee (whom I don't think is on this site, but thanks anyway) for Beta reading.

Chapter 8

"_The fox went out on a chilly night_

_Prayed to the moon to give him light_

_For he had many a mile to go that night_

_Before he reached the town-oh, town-oh, town-oh_

_He had many a mile to go that night_

_Before he reached the town-oh._

_He ran right up to the farmer's pen_

_Ducks and the geese were kept there in_

_He said "a couple of you are gonna grease my chin_

_Before I leave this town-oh, town-oh, town-oh_

_A couple of you are gonna grease my chin_

_Before I leave this town-oh."_

Lillian's voice held a syrupy hint of satisfaction as she gaily belted out the old tune into the frosty autumn air. She had a sense of irony, and it was hard to miss the parallels between her ragged gang and the fox of the song. And it was definitely nice to hear a song or story where the fox won, for once. (Foxes, in Lillian's opinion, were greatly maligned)

"_He grabbed the grey goose by the neck_

_Slung a duck across his back_

_And he didnt mind the quack quack quack_

_And the legs all dangling down-oh, down-oh, down-oh,_

_He didn't mind the quack quack_

_And the legs all dangling down-oh."_

Life, such as it was, was beginning to get back to normal, to become – dare she say it – _fun_ again. Quite apart from the lingering grogginess and after-effects of the Saracen poison, the gang had been feeling uncomfortable confronted with their mortality lately. Djaq, for one, wasn't letting them hear the end of it, and never missed a chance to remind them how stupid they'd been for falling into the Sheriff's trap. As much as they all wanted to pummel her for this, she had saved their lives, so they'd restrained themselves. Allan, meanwhile, was sulking, looking guilty as a naughty dog, feeling somehow responsible for the poisoning because it was he who suggested taking the ale. John had eventually had to be firm with him – he hadn't forced the ale down any of their throats, after all – and threatened to knock him cold if he couldn't brighten up.

A week had passed, slowly and uneventfully the outlaws gradually gaining back their health and good spirits, gently easing back into their old loot-and-pillage lifestyle. Only Will and Djaq seemed to be on edge, speaking stiffly only when necessary and avoiding one another's company when they could. Though the gang was puzzled by their frostiness, it didn't take a genius to notice the signals sparking through the air between them, so they kept out of it. It was one of those stupid fights where both parties clearly missed each other, any fool could see that, but both were too proud to admit it. Will seemed to be taking it the worst, Lillian reflected to herself, seeming pale and forlorn (although whether that were due to heartache or the ache in his painfully healing stomach gash, it was hard to say). Grinning to herself at her friends' shortsightedness, she set her voice to the next verse.

_The old grey woman jumped out of bed,_

_Out of the window she popped her head_

_Crying "John, John, the grey goose is gone,_

_And the fox is on the town-oh, town-oh, town-oh,_

_John, John, the grey goose is gone,_

_And the fox is on the town-oh!"_

The real "old grey woman" (as Lillian was fondly referring to the Sheriff in her head) had been surprisingly quiet. Of course, he was bullying the peasants as badly as ever, that hadn't changed, but no new schemes, nothing out of the ordinary. This worried Robin. When things get quiet, that's when the worst trouble is brewing, and they still weren't fully recovered from his last little bit of trouble. Much (to everyone's vast astonishment) had lost some of his appetite while even Allan's quick wit and bright energy was dampened by lingering sickness. Will's injury left him pale and shaky as a ghost, and tired himself out quickly. Lillian had suggested he talk to Djaq about it, but he'd merely shaken his head, looking embarrassed. The group was certainly in no condition to deal with Vaysey's next vile scheme.

_The fox and his wife without any strife_

_Carved up the goose with a fork and a knife_

_And they never had such a supper in their life_

_And the little ones chewed on the bones-oh, bones-oh, bones-oh_

_They never had such a supper in their life_

_And the little ones chewed on the bones-oh._

All in all, however, life could be a hell of a lot worse. They were alive (a very big bonus) and recovering. The sun was shining, the leaves were golden and crimson and decorated the world like a stained glass window. In the end, it seems, Robin Hood always gets the goose.

……..oooOOOooo……….

The handy thing about being a woman, Marian reflected to herself, was that people rarely took notice of you. Most of the time she rebelled against this irritating fact, but since becoming Robin Hood's spy she had to admit, being underestimated had its benefits. That and a pair of betwitchingly beautiful eyes (which she was an expert at batting innocently at unsuspecting guards) were enough to get her into the castle on numerous occasions when a man might have been caught and run through a dozen times over.

Not to mention, of course, that it was common knowledge Guy of Gisbourne was head-over-heels for her, and dropping his name was often enough to have the guards shuffle away guiltily – it didn't hurt to have the second most feared man in Nottingham on your side. Marian sighed silently to herself as she pictured Robin's face hardening with disapproval at the thought. Well, if he wanted information he'd have to get used to the idea of her cosying up to Gisbourne, without whom she never would have been able to bluff her way into the castle and snuck up to the keyhole of the Sheriff's study, where Vaysey and Guy were speaking in hushed, intense tones.

The castle was buzzing with tales of Vaysey's tantrums since he'd found the outlaws the week before. Rumor was, he'd sent one of his serving girls to the dungeons for spilling a goblet of wine, had a stable boy whipped and, as usual, was belittling Gisbourne worse than ever (this last fact was usually told with a note of satisfaction) His foul temper hadn't let up for a moment since Robin Hood had eluded him. Marian could only imagine his rage at having lost the outlaw yet again, and had kept out of sight to avoid being a target. Yesterday, however, word was that he'd stopped his abuses abruptly and taken to brooding quietly in his study. This could only mean he'd come up with some kind of plan for revenge (or worse, that he was concentrating on King Richard again), and now was the time to being gleaning information where she could. This is why she crouched, hooded, in the shadows by Vaysey's slightly ajar door, holding her breath as she listened intently to their subdued whispers.

"My lord, we've used spies before," Gisbourne was saying warily. "With only occasional success. What makes you think this time is so different?"

"He thinks he's won, Gisbourne," the Sheriff hissed, with a trace of the madness that always seemed to simmer below his surface. "He thinks he's won his most definitive victory yet – he's come back from death itself. It will make him cocky and bigheaded. He won't be able to resist flaunting it, and the moment he does, we shall know. I'm not talking about a single scheme or one aptly placed informant, I'm talking about dozens of dirty, pitiful-looking spies in every corner of the villages. Soon they'll be invited to the drop points, taken in by his allies. Before long we'll know not just the whereabouts of Hood but of every outlaw sympathizer in Nottingham. He'll have nowhere to run, no one to help him. I'm through playing, Gisbourne. I-"

A guard clattered down the far end of the corridor, and Marian flattened herself against the wall, her hood up over her face. Her breath caught in her throat, and she bit hard on her lip to suppress the sound of her panting. After a long, tense moment, the guard passed without incident.

Marian may have been rash and brave, but she was no fool and even her bravery had its limits. No amount of eyelash-batting would exonerate her if the Sheriff caught her lurking outside his private study, hooded, with her ear to the keyhole. She had heard all she was likely to that night.

Her footsteps barely tapped against the stone floor as she flitted away to find her chestnut mare. She'd ride into the forest tonight, take no rest until Robin had been warned. With a silent apology to her father (who would surely worry when she did not return home) she tugged her hood farther forward and ventured out into the chill afternoon.

………oooOOOooo………

"Now," Robin quipped mockingly. "Unless you have a pauper twin brother making deliveries at the castle, I think you and I have something to discuss."

The man seated in the lavish carriage closed his mismatched eyes and leaned his head against the cushioned neck rest of his chair. Sure, he was shaven and neat, washed and clothed in finery, but Robin was no fool. It is hard to mistake the face of the man who once slipped you poison, especially when that man has such distinctively-coloured eyes.

With a wordless growl, Little John hauled Robert of Durham from his opulent carriage and held him with his arms twisted behind his back, the limp bodies of his unconscious host of guards littering the ground at his feet. In an instant, the sword points of Allan, Djaq and Much rested uncomfortably close to his throat, while Will and Lillian held back, fingering their arrows. Surrounded by armed friends, Robin found it even easier than usual to be smug.

"Now before I rob you blind and leave you stumbling through the forest in your underclothes," he said politely, "I'd like you to answer a few of my questions."

"And if I don't?" Durham spat, his desperate rage betraying his underlying panic.

Robin smirked. "If you don't, well, I suppose we'll take the underclothes too." The gang laughed nastily at that. It was hard to feel pity for the man who had almost killed them all in one fell swoop.

"What is the Sheriff doing with Saracen poison?" Robin asked bluntly. "Where could he have gotten it from?"

Durham focused his eyes on a point far behind Robin's head, his mouth shut tight.

"Djaq, search the carriage," Robin ordered, and with a small nod she obeyed. "We could, of course, simply kill you and leave it at that," he told Durham conversationally.

"I'm not being funny," snapped Allan with uncharacteristic viciousness, "He did try to do us all in first. Why should we show mercy now?"

Robin said nothing, but stared penetratingly at Durham, who rolled his eyes. "Come now, Robin," he laughed, "Everyone knows you don't have the taste for blood anymore."

"Fair point," Robin conceded. "But I wouldn't be so sure about him," he added, as Little John tightened his grip on Durham's twisted arm painfully. "Or him," he noted, gesturing towards Allan, whose face had twisted into an ugly sneer.

Durham's courage seemed to be faltering when the interregation was interrupted by Djaq's grave voice. "Robin… I think you should see this."

She held up a brown strip of parchment, upon which a tiny, detailed scrawl of Saracen letters were written. Robin looked curiously to Djaq to translate.

"It's a list," she explained. "Various goods only found in the Holy land… weapons, chemicals – dangerous items, Robin. Even a few luxuries like spices and perfume. It's a merchant's order. And right at the top of the list? More wood spirit."

"Well now," Robin hissed, his voice reaching that low pitch that always signaled danger to the gang. "Isn't that interesting. The Sheriff's found himself a supplier."

"Not just a supplier," Durham noted quietly, his tongue suddenly loosened. "A whole supply line. I'm just one small link in the chain. Kill me and it'll make no difference. The Sheriff will still get his poisons and weapons on time."

The gang exchanged glances, and Robin backed off. He took a long moment, and a deep breath through his nose. He gestured to John who, with his usual brevity, struck Durham across the skull so that he tumbled forward, unconscious.

Robin remained silent as the gang awaited orders, his tension and worry settling over them like a thick, suffocating blanket.

"Master?" began Much tentatively. "I know… I know its bad, Master, but we keep the roads well covered… What I mean is, the next carriage we'll be ready for, and we can…"

Djaq shook her head, her demeanor echoing Robin's. "Its not the goods that are the problem, Much."

Much's eyes flicked from Djaq to Robin to the rest of the bemused crowd. "Well then what is?"

"If the Sheriff has a supply line, he has influence over trade," Robin said slowly and wearily. "If he has influence, he'll know the merchants who travel to the Holy Land. If he knows the merchants…"

"He has access to information from the Holy Land," breathed Lillian, filling in the blanks.

Robin nodded. "And we don't even know how long he's had it. He could know details about the King's whereabouts, where he plans to land, information that even I don't know. And it's not going to help, taking out one treasonous merchant or messenger. If I know Vaysey then it's well organized, and a definite threat."

Much pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his hair, looking about the weary band of outlaws. His friends, who had seemed so righteous before now looked strained and tired. Allan's eyes flicked nervously from Djaq to Robin, Lillian pressed her lips together in doubt and Will's drawn face was pale and sweaty from pain and exertion. "So… what do we do?"

Robin indulged in a deep sigh, suddenly feeling as tired and overwhelmed as his friends looked. "For now, get this gold and those horses back to camp. There's poor that need feeding. Tomorrow… I'll just have to think of something."


End file.
